


The Clothes Make the Man

by scifigrl47



Series: Phil Coulson's Case Files of the Toasterverse [20]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Costumes, Fluff, Gen, M/M, charity fund raisers, silliness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:58:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9483836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: The Avengers volunteer to help out at a library fund raiser.  In costume.Tony has a large budget and Natasha likes to torment everyone in the vicinity.  Things are going to go well.





	1. Chapter 1

“Give me one good reason to go through with this.”

Natasha’s sigh was audible even through the closed bathroom door. “Because this is a benefit for the New York Public Libraries, and the Friends of the Library are counting on our presence to raise funds?”

Phil glared at the mirror. He looked amazingly stupid. Glaring, he said, “No, they’re counting on the Avengers’ presence to raise funds. No one will care or notice if I’m there or not.”

“Really?” she asked. “You’re going to leave Stark with the general public and untold scores of children and no adult supervision?”

Phil’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. “You count as an adult, I’m quite certain of it.”

“Above my pay grade, Coulson. Besides, I’ll be responsible for Clint, or Tony, but not both. Not alone.”

“Steve can-”

“Steve is very excited about this benefit,” she said, her voice full of doom. “Steve is very enthusiastic about the power and possibilities of the free library system.” There was a beat of a pause. “Did you know that Steve still has his library card for the Carnegie Library in Flatbush?”

Phil’s head fell forward. “Of course he does.” He straightened up. “What’s his costume?”

“Buck Rogers. He’s very please with how it came out.”

Phil shifted his weight, trying to get used to the heels.  “Do children even remember Buck Rogers?”

“Probably not, but Steve might just revive the property. He’s very enthusiastic.”

“If anyone can, it’s him.” Phil tugged at his neckwear. This was unnatural. “Director Fury can be your designated adult.”

There was a pause. “Director Fury is dressed as Long John Silver. Do you really think he counts?”

“That’s almost enough to convince me to put in an appearance,” Phil said. “Almost.”

“Really? Your boss, dressed as a pirate, with a robot parrot that Stark programmed, that’s not enough to get you out here?”

“Not quite. Get me a picture.”

“You picked a fine time to evidence shame, Coulson.” The bathroom door opened with no further warning. Phil glanced up, catching sight of her in the mirror. She was stunning in her ballerina costume, a brilliant design of scarlet and gold silk, tule and feathers. Crystal and ribbon curled through the feathers that framed her hair and face, and her makeup was suitably stunning. She smiled. “Hill decided on Princess Leia.”

He stared at her. “No.” She arched an eyebrow. “What-”

“The white one from the beginning, do not even bring up the metal bikini.”

Phil held up a hand. “The hair?”

“Oh, yes.” Natasha leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. “Cinnamon bun braids.”

Phil considered that. “Dammit,” he said. “I’m going to have to attend this thing. Aren’t I?”

“There was never any chance you weren’t. You are a man of your commitments.”

He let out a sigh. “I don’t remember committing to this.”

“Yes, well, you shouldn’t have committed to an extended op without us, thus leaving us to commit on your behalf.” Natasha made a ‘turn around’ motion with one hand, and when Phil turned to face her, she straightened his shirt. “Where’s your vest?”

Phil winced. “Do I have to-” Her eyes flicked up to his, and Phil struggled to repress a flinch. “On the bed.”

“Better,” she said. She hooked a finger in his bandanna and tugged him towards the bedroom. Collecting the vest with her other hand, she held it out. “Suit up, Agent Coulson.”

“I will get you for this, Agent Romanov.” He took it from her and pulled it on. Her head tipped to the side, her gaze considering. He spread his hands. “Well?”

“I have to admit, that works better than I thought it would,” she said.

“Well, golly gee howdy,” he deadpanned. “Thank you kindly, ma'am.”

She made a tsking noise under her breath, but her eyes were dancing. “Now, that’s no way for an authority figure to talk.”

“I feel ridiculous,” he said, and Natasha plopped his hat on his head.

“Nothing to be done for it, Sheriff Woody.” Her lips curled up as Phil glared at her from under the broad brim of his hat. “I offered you some options.”

“They were all horrible.” He pulled the hat back off, smoothing his hair into place. He missed his tie. He really, really missed his nice, dignified shoes. With a resigned sigh, he set the hat back on his head and tipped it to the correct angle with a flick of his finger. “You look lovely, though.”

She spread her arms, graceful and delicate as any prima ballerina. “The Firebird,” she said. “One of my favorite Russian folk tales, and one of my favorite ballets.” She smiled, bright and wide. “If I can do this in toe shoes, Phil, you can do it in cowboy boots.”

He stared down that the polished brown leather boots. The fake spurs on the back jangled with every step, and he wasn't used to the heels. He was pretty sure he was walking funny, but it was better than tripping over his own feet. “I think I’d prefer the toe shoes.”

The apartment door slammed. “Are the two of you ready yet?”

“Barton, you’re the one who’s late,” Natasha called back.

“As always,” Phil said. He looked up, just as Clint slid around the corner. He was dressed head to toe in green, a thigh-length tunic over thick tights, and a pair of knee high brown leather boots. A pointed green cap was tipped back on the crown of his head, leaving the long feather tucked into the side to bounce against the longbow slung over his shoulder. Phil couldn’t quite hold back a smile. “Robin Hood. Really.”

“Adhapdkah,” Clint said, his voice strangely strangled.

“Coherent,” Natasha said. To Phil, she added, “The theme is Myths, Folklore and Favorite Characters, and he needed a costume. What did you think he was going to end up wearing?”

“Well, at least you look better in yours than I do in mine,” Phil said. He straightened the oversized silver star on his left breast with a careful tug, then slapped his hands against his thighs. “Let's roll 'em out, agents.”

“Shmashipwa,” Clint said, and Phil gave him a look, not sure if he was mocking or just drunk. But Clint had a very peculiar look on his face, like he’d just taken a sharp blow to the head and hadn’t quite decided if he needed to fall unconscious or not. Phil frowned. “Are you all right?”

Clint cleared his throat twice. “Fine,” he said at last, not sounding at all fine.

“You should go,” Natasha said to Phil. “Fury sent me to find you.”

Phil’s eyes closed. “Right.” He headed for the door, wincing at the way the 'spurs' rattled with every step. He was definitely walking funny. “Did Stark ever choose a costume?”

She smiled. “That, you’re going to have to see, to believe.”

“Well, that’s not terrifying or anything.”

“It’s worse than you think. See you there.”

*

Clint stared at the closed door.

“I think he looked nice, don’t you?” Natasha said, her voice sugar-sweet, and Clint turned on her.

“You,” he said, his voice low and full of betrayal. “This is-” He pointed at her. “You did this on purpose!”

Her smile was pure evil. “He needed a costume.”

“And you got him THAT ONE?”

Her teeth flashed in a smug smile. “It actually suits him. Long legs, tall, lean, and looks good in hats, especially if he tips his head forward. All cheekbone and strong, manly jaw.” One shoulder raised in a sight shrug. “He does make an ideal cowboy.”

Clint’s mouth was hanging open. He shut it. “Why?”

“This is revenge,” Natasha said, bored about it. “Pure and simple revenge, Barton.”

“What did I ever do to-” He spread his hands. “No, wait, how do you even know?”

“How do I know?” she repeated. “You mean, about your cowboy kink?”

“Not a kink,” he said. “Not a-” She was giving him that look, that pitying look. “I grew up on Westerns, there are a lot of hot men in Westerns, this is a thing, and how the hell do you-”

“Do you remember Cheyenne?” she asked, cutting him off. Her head rolled in his direction, the delicate beadwork of her headdress glinting in the light.

He stopped dead, caught off guard. “The op? What-”

“Not the op.” Her feet brushed delicately across the floor as she moved towards him, her hips swaying. “After the op.”

Clint frowned as he tried to think about it. There was nothing but a white blank. “No,” he said. She took another step towards him, and he started retreating.

“Know why?”

“Probably had something to do with the three bottles of rotgut whiskey we bought on the way back to the motel,” he said.

“There is no ‘we’ involved here, Clint. You. You bought three bottles of cheap, disgusting whiskey, and then proceeded to drink. All. Of. It,” she said.

“It was a lousy op,” Clint explained. His shoulders hit the wall, and he came to an abrupt stop.

“I’m aware, I was there, too,” Natasha said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Which was why I wanted nothing more once we got to the motel than to sleep. You, meanwhile, got roaring drunk and found a late night Gary Cooper movie marathon and proceeded to tell me all about your thing for cowboys.”

Clint studied her. “I don’t remember this.”

Natasha leaned in. “That,” she said, her voice gentle, “is because you were quite drunk.”

“Gary Cooper is amazingly hot,” Clint pointed out. “Like. Super hot.”

“I’m aware that you think so. In that you told me about it in loving, graphic detail. All night.” She stroked a finger along the line of his cheek. “And it was a very long night, Barton.” 

His shoulders slumped. “And so you’ve decided to get your revenge on me,” he said, slowly, “by dressing Phil as Sheriff Fucking Woody for a party where I’m going to be walking around in TIGHTS? In front of CHILDREN?”

She patted his cheek. “Discipline. You have to learn it eventually.”

“I cannot believe we used to date.  You are the worst person I’ve ever met,” he said.

“You met the Red Skull once.”

“Okay, it’s a toss-up.” She laughed, and Clint concentrated on hating her very, very much.

“Only you could find a bright yellow shirt and cowhide patterned vest sexy,” she said, grinning.

“He’s wearing jeans,” Clint moaned. “And a hat.”

“And boots,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper. “And I hear that Steve actually found him a lariat.”

“I will end you,” he said, trying to mean it.

She gave him a pitying look. “No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” he agreed, resigned. And he absolutely could not think about this. His only hope was to avoid Phil completely. If he could pull that off, he might get through this without dragging Phil into a closet in a public library. “What is Stark wearing, by the way?”

“You’re going to have to see it to believe it.”

*

“Aw, Cap, you look adorable!”

Steve looked up, a smile creasing his face as Darcy poked her head through the double doors. She was dressed in blue and white gingham dress over a crisp white shirt and sparkling red shoes, her dark hair in two pigtails, tied with blue ribbons. “Hey there, Dorothy,” Steve said, and Darcy grinned back at him. 

“And my little dog, too!” she said, holding up her basket. There was a little black dog inside, clearly a plush toy. “Not the best Toto, but we couldn't find a real one.”

“Well, that's probably for the best,” Steve agreed. He shifted another basket of supplies onto the table, making sure that everything was accessible.

“So, you're what, Mal Reynolds?” Darcy asked, and he sighed.

“Tony put you up to this, didn't he?” he asked, shaking his head.

“He gave me twenty dollars to say it, yes,” Darcy said. She grinned, unrepentant, as Steve gave her a chiding look. 

“The costume isn't even that similar!”

“Yeah, but I needed the cash, and he's very persuasive.”

“I know,” Steve said. “Trust me. I know.” He ripped open a packet of construction paper, pleased with the variety of colors. “We've got a little theater set up in one of the meeting rooms, with a bunch of old serials and a couple of Godzilla films, and a whole room full of comics. Anyone doesn't know who Buck Rogers is, I know just where to send 'em.”

“You should've gone with Superman.”

“It was suggested,” Steve said. “But I did my time in tights, I'm not going back.”

“This suits you better, anyway. Very retro futuristic.”

“Thanks.” Steve paused. “I think.”

Darcy looked at the tables. “What are you doing?”

“Letting the kids make their own props and costume bits,” Steve said, nodding at the carefully organized boxes of foam and feathers, stacks of paper and bins of pom poms, pipe cleaners, ribbon, markers and crayons and all manner of supplies. There were pre-cut masks and paper hats and helmets, fairy wings and crowns, swords and scepters and wands, all ready to be decorated. “And world building.” The walls were covered with white paper, huge sheets at various heights and also spread out on the floor. Cups of markers and pencils and crayons were set everywhere, ready to be used.

“Arts and crafts,” Darcy said, her hands on her hips. Her wicker basket swung against her hip, the little stuffed dog inside tipping to the side. 

“Arts and crafts,” Steve agreed, proud about it. “With little packets of supplies for the kids to take home at the end.”

“You're adorable,” Darcy told him.

“So I hear.” His watch beeped, and he checked it. “Almost time.”

“Almost time,” Darcy agreed. She peeked at his wrist, and Steve held his arm out so she could see his watch. She gave him a look that was full of amusment. “And did Stark make you a fancy sci-fi watch to go with your fancy sci-fi costume?”

“Yep.” Steve headed for the doors. “I woulda killed for something like this as a kid.”

“Adorable.”

Shaking his head, Steve ignored that one. Outside in the hallway, a mingled crowd of library staff, SHIELD staff, and volunteers brought in by the Maria Stark Foundation and the Friends of the New York Public Libraries were moving towards the main hall. “People put a lot of thought into this,” he said, grinning at Darcy.

“As it turns out, we've got a lot of frustrated actors around.” Darcy was skipping along next to him, seeming to enjoy the way that her skirts bounced with each step. “Have you seen Sitwell?”

“No, what's he-”

Darcy held her arm out like a sword fighter and swung it through the air. “Zorro!”

Steve burst out laughing. “That's fantastic!”

“It really is.”

“Have either of you seen Tony?”

Steve turned, looking back over his shoulder as Rhodey cut through the crowd. He was wearing a pair of overalls over a white shirt, a red handkerchief tied around his neck. Slung over one shoulder was a massive hammer. “Not yet,” he said, giving Rhodey a nod. “Pretty sure he's going for a big reveal.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Rhodey agreed as they headed down the stairs.

“Hey,” Darcy said, grinning at him. “You decided on John Henry?”

Rhodey shifted the massive hammer to his other shoulder, the muscles in his arm and shoulders pulling tight with the movement. “We were looking at a couple of things,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. “Personally, I wanted to go with King Arthur, but Tony pointed out that John Henry got better props.”

“That is an exceptional hammer,” Darcy said as they reached the main lobby. 

“Yeah, it is, but that's not what I'm talking about.” Rhodey's dark eyes danced as he ran a hand over his short cropped hair. “You know the story of John Henry? How he had a race with a mechanical drill that was going to take over the job?” Darcy nodded, and Rhodey tipped his head back over his shoulder. “Someone wanted to dress up as the drill.”

Darcy leaned to the side, peering around him. “Oh my God,” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Is that Dummy?”

“Yep,” Rhodey said, grinning. He gave a sharp whistle, and the bot rolled in their direction. He had a comically large drillbit in his claw and a tiny top hat and curly mustache affixed to his camera. He bounced over to Rhodey and paused next to him, spinning his drill with a whir. “That's right,” Rhodey told him, laughing. “Good job, Dummy.”

“You're adorable!” Darcy caught Dummy's head in her hands and pressed a light kiss to his lens. “Why the hat and facial hair?” she asked.

“He's the bad guy in the story, and Tony is pretty literal sometimes,” Steve explained. He reached past Darcy and patted Dummy on his support strut. The bot chirped, bumping against his hand, nearly hopping up and down on his wheels. “Hey, buddy, are you excited about storytime?”

“I gotta say, this is the best couples costume I've ever been part of,” Rhodey said. “We've got some folk singers and storytellers coming in to join me in talking to the kids about oral history and the tradition of community mythmaking.” He glanced at Darcy. “You're doing the book giveaways?”

Darcy curtseyed, her dark braids bouncing on her shoulders. “You got it. We're going with 'If you liked the movie, try the book!'” she explained, a wide smile on her face. “Some of the support staff is helping me, we're doing readings and photos ops with Disney and book characters, the whole thing.”

“Who's the Wizard?” Rhodey asked.

She made a face. “I tried to talk Tony into it, but he wasn't having any of it. Too much time behind a curtain, I think. Coulson blackmailed Agent Blake into doing it.” She went up on her toes, cracking her heels together. “And Harris, Drew and Shawn are the rest of my little crew.”

“They volunteered?”

“Phil made it clear that if he was stuck doing this, so were we,” Darcy explained. “Everyone was pretty cool about it, Harris put up the most fuss.”

“Harris,” Harris said, coming up behind her, “is allergic to straw.” Despite that, he was grinning beneath the broad brimmed hat and the straw that adorned it. “I should've fought Drew for the Lion costume.”

Darcy popped him lightly on the shoulder with a little fist. “Nope, this suits you.” Harris stuck his tongue out at her, his face full of amusement, and she flicked the tip of his nose.

“You don't have to-” Steve started.

“Yes, he does,” Darcy said, cutting him off.

“It's fine,” Harris said. “It had to be me in this one. Coulson asked me to help Bruce when Darcy isn't doing readalongs.”

“What's Bruce's costume?” Rhodey asked. “I haven’t seen him yet...”

“That's because he's out back,” Steve said. “He's Johnny Appleseed.”

“He's going to be discussing urban ecology and sustainable energy habits. We've got seedlings to hand out,” Harris explained. “All sorts. Some trees, but also fruit, vegetable and flower seedlings, for community gardens and fire escape container gardens and windowboxes.” He spread his arms. “Coulson figured the Scarecrow could come in handy.”

“Mostly, Harris didn't want to end up being Tony's sidekick,” Darcy said, grinning.

“I absolutely did not want to end up being Tony's sidekick,” Harris agreed. “I've had enough short jokes to last me a lifetime, I do not need any more.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And I don't do song and dance routines.”

Rhodey looked at Steve. “He didn't.”

Steve tried, and failed, to keep from grinning. “Of course he did,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you really think he wouldn't?”

“Hope springs eternal, man.” But Rhodey was grinning as he started across the lobby. “Let's go, I want a good view for this.”

“You really do,” Darcy said. She grabbed Harris' arm pulling him in the other direction. “Let's go, this is going to be fantastic.” She waved at Steve before disappearing into the crowd, and Steve waved back before he headed off after Rhodey.

“Have you seen him?” Rhodey asked, as the occupants of the lobby went quiet. The library director, a tall, enthusiastic woman with a soft voice and silver streaked curls escaping from her bun, thanked everyone from coming and gave a brief overview of how the day was going to go.

“Yes,” Steve said, in a bare whisper. “He's been working on it for weeks. There were tailors involved.”

Rhodey's eyebrows arched. “Tailors? Plural?”

“And a Tony award winning Broadway costume designer.”

“Did it occur to you to talk him out of this? He's going to scare the wits out off the kids.”

Steve grinned. “What, I think it's a perfect match. Good businessman, genius, mercurial, sarcastic, sly, snappy dresser, and heart of a marshmallow.”

Rhodey pressed a hand to his face. “This is going to end with sobbing children or an army.”

“It's Tony. Could be both.”

“Thank you!” The director clapped her hands together. “Now, please, everyone join me in welcoming, and thanking, today's sponsors, Director Fury of SHIELD-” She waved a hand in Fury's direction, and he gave the crowd a nod. He made a startlingly effective pirate.

“And Tony Stark.” The director, gleeful as a child, was clapping, even as she stepped out of the way to let Tony step out onto the stairwell.

And when it happened, Steve was torn between looking at Tony and looking at everyone else looking at Tony. The reactions just appealed to the artist in him.

Tony was picture perfect in a gleaming purple velvet tail coat and brilliant, well tailored vest, a top hat tilted rakishly over his forehead and an ebony cane swinging from one hand. He paused, his head tipping up just enough for his laughing brown eyes to peek out from under the brim of the top hat. “Welcome,” he said. “I trust you all have your golden tickets?”

And in the silence that followed, he swung the cane around, smacking the end down on the marble stairs with a crack. The top of the cane flew apart, and a burst of multicolored lights exploded in all directions. In the awed silence that followed, the door behind him flew open and a wave of Roombas, painted bright orange with green trim came floating through the air in two neat lines. 

“Ompa-loompa, doop-a-de do,” they sang through their speakers, “we've got another riddle for you. Ompa-loompa, doop-a-de dee, if you are wise, you'll listen to me.”

One peeled out of the group and swooped over the crowd, just out of reach of the childrens' grasping fingers. “What do you get when you walk through these doors? Up from the street and all through the floors?”

“What can you do, when you open a book? What can you learn, if you just take a look?” another sang, floating in gentle circles.

“We all love the library!” they chorused, swinging back into formation.

“Oompa-loompa, doop-a-dee da, if you are reading, you will go far. You will live in happiness, too, like the Oompa-Loompa doop-a-dee do!” The Roombas spun dipped their casings towards the ground in a bow, and then released a cascade of candy into the waiting hands of the children gathered below them. Tony, waiting on the stairs, was grinning like the maniac that he was as they came floating back to hover around him.

In the cheers and applause that followed, Rhodey gave Steve a look. “You're dating that,” he said, doing his best to keep a straight face.

Steve grinned at him. “I know, isn't it great?” He slung an arm around Rhodey's shoulders. “And you've been his best friend for a lot longer than he's been my boyfriend.”

Rhodey's eyes tipped up towards the ceiling. “We're both idiots.”

“Possibly.” Steve shrugged. “At least he went with Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka, and not the Johnny Depp version.”

“Thank heavens for small favors.”

“Now that we're done with that nonsense,” Nick Fury said, his folded arms braced on the railing of the stairs. He had a half smile on his face, and a silk bandanna tied around his head. The parrot on his shoulder rocked from side to side, wings flapping. He gave it a tap on the beak. 

“BWAK! Let's get this op underway,” the parrot crowed, and the children laughed and clapped.

“I'd advise against speaking to Mr. Slugworth here, he's clearly up to no good,” Tony said, folding both hands on top of his cane, and Steve groaned.

“I've got him, you get Fury,” Rhodey said.

“Deal.”

*

“You cannot feed children candy for three hours.”

Tony reached out with his cane, tapping Coulson lightly in the center of the chest. “As it turns out, I absolutely can.”

Phil looked down at the cane. He reached up with one finger and pushed it away from him. “No. You can't.”

“Actually, I can,” Tony said. He turned, pointing with the cane with a sweeping gesture. “They signed a waiver.”

Phil studied the wall of legalese. “I'm fairly certain that having children sign something allowing you to stuff them with unlimited amounts of sugar is not actually legal.”

“My legal advisers disagree with your assessment.” Tony leaned towards a little boy who was sitting on the table, a cookie in his hand. “Isn't that correct, sir?” The boy gave him a chocolate covered grin and a thumbs up. 

“'S legal,” he said, with all due gravity. Then he stuffed the cookie into his mouth.

Tony smirked at Phil. “Perfectly legal.”

“No, it's really not.” Phil rubbed his forehead, almost knocking his hat off. “In that they're children. As is your legal adviser.”

Tony waved his hand and his cane and everyone in the area ducked. “Pish posh, Sheriff, it's fine.”

“It's potentially very harmful to their health as well as the library property.”

“Not a page of library property, or a hair on a single library page has been harmed,” Tony said.

“It will be when they inevitably start vomiting.”

Tony heaved a long suffering sigh. “You're a real killjoy, you know that, Sheriff?”

“And you're an idiot.”

“Just for that,” Tony said, leaning on his cane with both hands, “no candy for you.”

“We're not actually giving them candy, just a variety of snacks,” Pepper said, bustling up with a clipboard and a quill pen. Black robes fluttered in her wake, and she gave Coulson a bright smile, her eyes sparkling. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was nearly bouncing up and down on the tips of her toes. “Well, aren't you just a fine looking lawman.”

“Right nice of you, ma'am.” Phil tipped his hat. “Thanks for keeping this snake oil salesman in line.”

“My pleasure, Sheriff.”

“Witch,” Tony said, and a passing librarian gave him a look.

“Watch that tone, muggle,” she said, pointing a wand in his direction. Tony held his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender, and she grinned. “All right, kids, who's ready for potions class with Tonks and Ginny?” To general cheers and laughter, the librarian headed for the back of the room, followed by an enthusiastic crowd.

“Potions?” Phil asked Pepper.

“Healthy smoothies that can be made with inexpensive and readily available materials,” Pepper said. From the pocket of her robe, she pulled her own wand. “Who better than Ginny Weasley to help everyone pinch a knut or two?”

“I could make an inappropriate schoolgirl comment here,” Tony said, and Pepper swept the top hat off of his head, smacking him lightly before dropping it back into place. Tony raised an eyebrow. “But I won't.”

“You're a smart man, Mr. Wonka.” Laughing, Pepper headed over to the corner, where the library staff had set up a variety of blenders and stacks of plastic cups on the long wooden tables. Everywhere, kids with wands and paper hats swarmed around.

“Have a cookie,” Tony said. With a magician’s pass of his hand, he produced a cookie from thin air. Or more likely some hidden pocket.

Phil gave it a look. “Somehow, I don’t trust you. Or your mysteriously appearing baked goods.”

“Rude,” Tony said. “This is a first class cookie.”

“It’s got pocket lint on it,” Phil pointed out.

Tony considered the cookie, tilting it one way, and then the other. “Picky, picky,” he said, and tossed it in the air.

“Mr. Sheriff Woody?” There was a faint tug at the side of his vest, and Phil looked down. The little girl was staring up at him with a very serious expression, and Phil went down on one knee.

“What can I do for you, little lady?” he asked.

She leaned in. “There's a bad man outside,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Phil stilled. “Is there, now?” he asked. “What sort of a bad man?”

“An OUTLAW,” she said, her eyes wide.

He relaxed. “I see,” he said, rubbing a hand over his mouth and jaw to hide his smile. “This outlaw. Is he wearing a lot of green?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And does he have a bow?”

“Yes!” Her hand tugged on Phil's vest. “You need to stop him!”

“Well, I can try.” He tipped his head forward, holding her gaze. “Has he actually done anything?”

She frowned. “He's a thief. He steals things!”

“I've heard that, too, but-”

She leaned in, her hands in little fists at her sides. “What if he steals from the library? Mama says that the library is very special because it belongs to everyone and so we have to be very, very careful with the books and the stuff we borrow because they're not just ours.”

“That's true,” Phil said. He narrowed his eyes at her. “But it's not fair to judge people based on what other people say about him or her. It's okay to be cautious, to be careful, and to listen to what people say. But sometimes people don't tell the truth, or the people doing the telling have a reason for telling you things that are lies.”

Another little girl, who'd been standing nearby, hugging a book to her narrow chest, piped up. “Prince John called him a thief, but Prince John stole from everyone else. Robin Hood was just taking it back.”

She frowned. “Two wrongs don't make a right.”

“That's true,” Phil agreed. “So let's ignore what the stories say. Did you actually see him take anything?”

She considered that. “Well, no,” she said at last, distinctly put out. “But I haven't been watching him all the time.”

Phil nodded. “It's always good to tell someone if you're worried, or if you think something bad will happen, of if you don't feel safe. So I'll tell you what, I'll go keep an eye on him, and make sure he doesn't take anything from the library.”

“Unless,” a librarian said, coming over with a stack of books, “he brings his items up to the front desk and presents a valid library card.” She grinned at Phil's little friend. “Because the library is here for everyone, even Robin Hood.”

“He needs to use it more, honestly.” Phil stood up. “So if I go and keep an eagle eye on things, will that be okay?”

She nodded. “Yes.” Her grin showed off a missing front tooth. “Thank you, Sheriff Woody.”

He tipped his hat to her. “Thank you, little lady. Now go and have something good to drink, okay?”

“Okay!” To the other girl, she said, “Do you like fairy tales?”

“Yes!”

“And I,” the librarian said, “know just where we can find some! Let’s go!”

Phil watched them go. “You’re not allowed around children any more,” he said.

Tony dusted the cookie off on his chest, knocking crumbs in all directions, before taking a huge bite. “Probably for the best.”

“Definitely for the best.”

“What is our resident arrowhead doing?” Tony asked, brushing crumbs from his goatee with a flick of his gloved fingertips.

“According to the program guide? He and Thor are doing physical fitness,” Phil said.

Tony nodded. “Sounds to me like you’ve got bigger problems, Sheriff.”

“Sounds to me like I do.” Phil reached out and snapped the cookie in half. “No blueberries.”

“Only in the smoothies, my dear lawman.”


	2. Chapter 2

The little boy hadn't moved in about five minutes. He just stood there, staring up at Thor with his mouth hanging open, ever so slightly. Thor, for his part, didn't seem at all concerned. He just stared back, a faint smile curving his lips, the length of his heavy wooden staff thrown over his shoulders, his wrists tipped against the pole.

Amused, Clint crouched down next to him. “You okay, kid?” he asked, bracing one hand on the smooth wood of his longbow. The boy nodded. Clint looked up at Thor, tipping the pointy brim of his cap back with a flick of his fingers. “I don't think he's okay.”

Thor's smile stretched into a grin. “Tis a confusing world he has stumbled upon, my friend. We must give him time to adjust.”

The boy didn't look away from Thor, but one hand reached out, catching Clint's sleeve and tugging. “Why,” he asked, his eyes huge, “do they call him LITTLE John?”

Clint considered Thor. “Well, where he comes from, he is small.” The boy turned to Clint, a traumatized look on his face, and Clint had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. “Small village. Big guys,” he explained, and Thor swung out with the stave, tapping Clint on the head with a solid thunk. “Ow!”

“Do not listen to him,” Thor said to the boy. “The archer is full of sly words and boastful jests.”

“That's very hurtful,” Clint said.

“And yet, no less true,” Thor said, his eyes dancing. 

The boy tugged on Clint's sleeve again, drawing his attention. “The story says you beat him in a fight.”

“Stories are not always true,” Thor pointed out, thumping the end of his staff against the ground. It cracked against the hard surface of the parking lot with a sound like thunder.

“This one is, though,” Clint said.

“Actually,” a voice said from behind him, “the story says that two foolish, bull-headed men met on a short, narrow bridge, and instead of either of them taking a step back so the other could pass, they both felt the need to attempt to knock the other into a stream that they could probably have jumped across.”

“Well, out of context, it sounds bad,” Clint said to Thor, who grinned at him.

“Most people would not own up to that.” Bobbi Morse leaned over Clint's shoulder. “So if he's claiming it as true, perhaps you should believe him.”

Clint straightened up. “Now, Marion,” he started, trying to sound hurt. 

Bobbi crossed her arms over her chest. “Now, Robin,” she said, her eyes dancing, “you know I'm right.”

“Are you Maid Marion?” the boy asked. 

Bobbi bobbed a quick curtsy, catching the hems of the tunic that covered her to the hips and holding it out like a skirt. Just like the rest of the crew, she was wearing heavy leggings underneath the tunic, and a pair of knee high boots. Her pale hair was in a braid that slipped over her shoulder when she curtsied. “I am, good sir.”

The boy barely missed a beat before returning the gesture with a bow. Bobbi grinned at him. “Now, here is a man of manners and proper upbringing,” she said to Clint.

“Kid's got potential,” Clint agreed.

“Where's your dress?” a little girl asked from his other side. She sounded disappointed. “If I were a lady, I would wear fancy dresses all the time.”

“I have many pretty dresses. But a lady knows to suit her fashion to the situation, and it's hard to keep up with outlaws in pretty dresses,” Bobbi said. “And I have to keep up with them, they make very poor choices.” She pointed a finger in Clint and Thor. “These two fought over a bridge.”

“It was a very important bridge,” Clint said. The children looked at him. Their gazes seemed almost pitying. “Look, I was having a bad day, all right?”

“I was simply eager for a fight, and he seemed willing to offer one,” Thor said, utterly unrepentant. Clint spread his hands in a 'why?' gesture, and he shrugged. “Tis no more than the truth.” He swung his staff around, using it as a massive pointer. Everyone in the general vicinity ducked. Just in case. Thor didn't seem to notice, but neither did he knock anyone off their feet, intentionally or not. “For those who wish to relive our mighty battle, we have a test of balance for you.”

The volunteers from the local YWCA had set up a narrow 'bridge' over a set of heavy gym mats, and were guiding children across the span. As they watched, a little girl wobbled across the bridge, her arms thrust out to the sides, her eyes glued to her feet.

“I can do that,” the little boy said to Thor, who nodded.

“Then together, we shall try,” he said. “Let us away.”

Clint watched them go, grinning. When he looked back, the little girl was considering him, her eyes narrowed. Her dark, glossy curls bounced as she tipped her head to the side. “Is he really your true love?” she asked Bobbi.

Bobbi crouched down. “Men come and go,” she said, bluntly. “My true love is the quest for justice, the protection of my people. That is something to cherish, something to build one's life around.”

The girl thought about that. “Mario in my gym class wants to be my boyfriend,” she said. “Can I have a boyfriend and also quest for justice?”

“I don't see why not,” Bobbi said with a grin. “Mario can help.”

“He always shares his pudding cup with someone who doesn't have dessert at lunch,” the girl said.

“That's a good sign,” Bobbi said.

The girl nodded. “Can I take a selfie with you?” she asked.

“Of course,” Bobbie said, and grinned obligingly at the girl's phone. When the shutter clicked, she asked, “Want to try the bridge?”

“No. I'm going to go try the climbing wall!” the girl announced. With a gap toothed grin and wave, she took off across the parking lot. Halfway to the wall, she thrust both hands in the air and yelled, “JUSTICE!”

Clint waited. Bobbi held up a hand. “Don't start with me.”

“I'm not your true love?” Clint asked, making sad eyes at her.

“You're starting,” she said, stern about it, but there was a smile lingering around her mouth. “We dated for like a day, Clint.”

“Day and a HALF,” he said.

“If you want to count the morning when we woke up and simultaneously agreed that that was fun and we should never do it again, yeah, a day and a half,” Bobbi said. A pack of children ran past, waving foam swords that had been constructed from pool noodles and duct tape. Bobbi paused, letting them pass. “Day and a quarter is closer, really.”

“I made breakfast,” he said. “Because I'm just that classy. And you stayed to eat it.”

“Fine. Day and a half,” she agreed. “And don't bring up-”

“Two and a half days,” he said cheerfully.

Her eyes squeezed shut. “And you're bringing it up.”

“Yep,” he said. She gave him a look. “I'm suspecting that face means you want me to change the subject.”

“Smart boy,” she said, but she wasn't trying to hide her smile anymore. “Interesting group of Merry Men you've put together here.”

“Hey, you're merrying it up, too,” Clint pointed out, slinging his bow over his shoulder. “I was surprised to see your name on the signup list. Who got to you?”

“Sitwell was relentless,” she said, her eyes rolling up towards the sky. 

“He was very enthusiastic about the idea,” Clint said. “Which was... Surprising.”

“I did not expect him to be quite so enthusiastic about putting on a costume and heading out to entertain children, no,” Bobbi said. She sidestepped a small mob of kids that were stampeding towards the martial arts demonstration over by the building. “I picked this one because I really thought the Merry Men would be mostly SHIELD agents.”

“The Asgardians decided they had dibs on the 'legendary warrior' class,” Clint said with a shrug. 

There was a rumble, and both of them turned to watch as Volstagg, dressed as Friar Tuck, ran past, carrying bags of 'stolen gold' thrown over each shoulder. Children of all shapes and sizes scrambled along in his wake, laughing and carrying smaller bags of their own. “Quickly!” Volstagg boomed. “Strength and speed! Strength and speed!”

Clint shook his head. “And most people choose not to argue with the Asgardians.”

“'Let the Wookie win?'” Bobbi asked, hiding a grin behind a hand.

“'Let the Wookies win,'” Clint agreed. 

Fandral, armed with a pool noodle sword, was showing children the proper stance for sword practice. “Set your feet lightly upon the ground,” he said. “Balance your weight, and be sure of your footing.”

“I don't know what that means,” a little girl said, waving her 'sword' in the air.

“Can you dance?” Fandral asked her. She nodded. He grinned. “Then the sword will be easy for you. Like this.” He waved a hand towards his feet, and the children broke ranks, clustering around to stare down at them. Fandral paused. “Ah. This is unexpected.”

“Just roll with it, Will Scarlet,” Clint called, and Fandral gave him a look. Clint grinned at him, unconcerned. “Don't stop, it they get bored, they're going to-” He didn't even finish the sentence before the first child swung his sword, hitting Fandral firmly in the shin. Clint winced. “Yeah. That.” He took a step back, catching Bobbi's elbow. “Let's go... Help the librarians.”

She glanced at him. “What librarians need help?” she asked, her brows drawing down.

“Don't know. Some librarians,” Clint said, tugging at her arm. “There are a lot of them here, bet we can find some if we look hard enough.”

Laughing, Bobbi followed him. “You're a coward, Robin.”

“I've lived a long time by knowing when a battle's hopeless,” he said. “You can cowardice if you want-”

“I do.”

“But,” Clint said, ignoring her, “notice I'm not getting hit with pool noodles?”

Bobbi shook her head. “You are a disaster.”

“I'm gonna bring up the pool noodle thing again,” Clint said cheerfully. “So I might be a disaster, but I'm doing pretty well right now.” 

“Only you would define that as 'pretty well.'” Bobbi stopped, one hand propped on her hip. “Okay. So the whole 'Asgardians being Merry Men' thing makes sense. I'll admit that. But why is Hogan carrying a guitar?”

“It's a mandolin,” Clint told her. “And it's because he's Alan-A-Dale, our quick witted and light fingered bard.” Bobbi stared at him. “What?” 

“I've heard the man say about ten words, total,” she said. “Who made him the bard?”

Clint grinned at her. “Alan!” he called. Hogan glanced at him, one eyebrow arched. “Maid Marion doubts your skills as a troubadour.”

Hogan looked at Bobbi, his face impassive. She opened her mouth. Closed it. “Not doubting, exactly,” she managed at last, with a bright smile. “Just... Curious. If this was really the role you wanted, or if Thor maybe-” She wiggled a hand in midair. “Encouraged you to take it.”

After a long moment, his chin dipped in a slight nod. Then he swung the mandolin off of his back, settling it in his arms. His fingers stroked over the strings in a smooth run of notes. Then he started to shred.

Clint listened, his head bouncing in time. Kids gathered around Hogan, jumping and clapping, but Hogan just played on, his expression unchanged.

Bobbi's mouth was hanging open. Finally, she said, “Is he playing Brittany Spears' Toxic on a mandolin?”

“He's not playing it,” Clint said. “He's KILLING it.” He slung his bow over his shoulder. “I feel I should be holding up a lighter here, you got a lighter?”

Bobbi patted him on the back. “I don't trust you with fire, Robin.”

“That's probably smart,” he admitted. “You want to go help Sif with the rope swinging? Or we could-”

“Mr. Robin Hood! Mr. Robin Hood!”

Clint turned as a tall, awkward boy with a shock of black hair and a brightly colored soccer jersey came running towards him. Clint held up a hand. “Whoa, careful, there's small kids-”

The boy ignored him. “The Sheriff is coming!” he yelled, skidding to a stop in front of Clint. His breath was coming in quick pants, his cheeks flushed. And all around them, everyone went still. 

Clint stared at him. “What?” he asked.

“The SHERIFF,” the boy said.

“Yeah, I got that, but, wait, what?” Clint asked.

Bobbi coughed into her fist. “Sheriff of Nottingham,” she said, in an undertone, and Clint stopped.

“Oooooh,” he said. “Oh, THAT Sheriff.” He braced one hand on his hip, the other on the wooden curve of his bow. He pretended to think. “Right. No one panic. Just go about your activities, the librarians made everyone promise to behave, so he shouldn't cause any problems.”

The boy looked at him, obviously not convinced. He looked over a nearby librarian who was manning the refreshment table, handing out cups of water and orange slices. She gave him a reassuring smile. “Everyone gets to come to the library,” she said. “As long as they follow the rules, and one of the rules is you cannot harass or bother other patrons. Right?”

“Right,” he said, a little calmer. He nodded. “I go to the library after school if my Mami isn't home; sometimes it's safer.”

“Right,” Clint echoed, but the librarian didn't miss a beat.

“We have afterschool programs and study groups,” she said. “You can join our anime club, or we have an art group that meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We're always looking for people who want to help us translate some of our materials, and we have computer classes every other Wednesday.” She smiled, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Stop by the desk before you leave and I can give you a calendar of our programs, okay?”

The boy nodded. “Okay!” And then to Bobbi, he said, “It's not the Sheriff of Nottingham, it's Sheriff Woody, but still, it's a SHERIFF and that seemed bad, so I thought-”

Clint's hip hit the edge of the table, and that was the first moment he realized that he'd started retreating. The librarian grabbed for the cups, and Bobbi grabbed for the oranges, and Clint nodded. “Know what? You're probably right. I'd best-” He waved a hand in the general direction of 'not here' and started moving in that direction. “I'm going to just, you know, go now.”

He caught a glimpse of Bobbi's face, her narrowed, suspicious eyes, and ducked away, dodging through the crowd before she could say anything. It wasn't hard to spot Phil, paused in the entrance to the parking lot, his hands braced on his narrow hips, his eyes squinting against the sunlight, even under the broad brim of his hat.   
Clint ducked behind a pile of stacked up gym mats, and snagged a plain, dark brown cloak from a costume rack. Tossing his hat to the side and tucking his bow over his shoulder, he swung the cloak on. It wasn't perfect camouflage, but at least he wasn't a bright green target anymore.

Clint braced a hand on the mats, leaning forward just far enough to see around the edge. There were kids everywhere, a sea of movement and chaos that might give him a certain amount of cover, if he could just join a pack and let them sweep him towards the building entrance.

“What are you doing?

He wasn't even surprised. “Running an op. Don't interfere.”

Bobbi leaned around him, her hand braced on his shoulder. “Are you hiding from Coulson?” she asked. “What'd you do?”

“Nothing. And I'm not.” Clint shifted, his boots moving against the concrete with a soft scuffing sound. “But if you wanted to distract him for a few minutes, that would be great.”

There was a second of silence. “Oh my God,” Bobbi said. 

“What?” Clint asked. He looked at her. “What?”

“You've still got the cowboy fetish,” she said.

“I- Wha-” Clint gaped at her. “First of all, no, I don't, I mean, I don't HAVE a cowboy fetish, not that I don't still have it, and how do you know about that?”

“I dated you.”

“For a DAY and a HALF,” Clint said.

“Two and a half days,” Bobbi said, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “Isn't that what you-”

“I hate you,” Clint told her.

“Is that any way to talk to the woman who's about to save your hide?” Bobbi grinned at him. “I'll distract him. But you'll owe me one.”

Clint gaped at her. Bobbi fluttered her eyelashes at him, unconcerned. “I saved your life last month!” Clint said, risking another glance at the sea of children. Phil was moving through the crowds, stopping here and there to crouch down and talk to a kid or pose for a picture. 

“Yes, you did. You fended off a neo-nazi high on PCP that weighed as much as the two of us put together who was determined to kill me with a machete,” Bobbi said. “I, meanwhile, am offering to fend off the man you love for like, five minutes. And you're going to owe me for it.”

“This is a horrible deal,” Clint said.

“Yes, it is. And you're going to take it anyway.”

Phil was looking around now, his hat on one hand, braced on his hip. Clint pulled the hood up on his cloak. “Ten minutes,” he said. “And this makes us even.”

“Done,” Bobbi said, darting around him. “Go left, follow the wall and use the door to the lower level. It's unlocked, and you can go through the meeting rooms and up to the main floor.”

“Hate you!” Clint called after her.

“We'll always have Sherwood Forrest, darling!”


End file.
